Things We Left Behind
by Tears of Mercury
Summary: AUGUST RUSH "His brother couldn't begin to understand that the only sunset and the only girl who had ever really mattered were both long gone by now." Louis and Lyla, pre-August, finding their way back. LouisxLyla
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own August Rush, it is property of the studio and the writers, and no copyright infringement is intended. Any recognizable dialogue comes either from the movie or one of the deleted scenes. Kapeesh? Kapeesh.

**Summary:** Louis and Lyla have been apart for eleven years, and it's wearing on both of them. After his latest break-up and some prompting from his brother, Louis sets out to rediscover his music, and instead realizes that he never really gave up on Lyla. What will Lyla have to say about this? Can she admit that she's never moved on either? (Begins during the deleted break-up scene between Louis and Jennifer, and goes in its own direction from there on out)

**A/N:** After seeing the movie and falling in love with this pairing, I had to do something about the wonderful but unresolved ending the writers left us with. A little counting revealed that the whole timeline of the movie was pretty screwed up, so I took my own liberties and decided to change some things. I hope you enjoy anyway. :) This story will probably only be three or four parts if all goes according to plan, so don't mind the long chapters.

**Chapter One**

"_The things I left behind have melted in my mind--"_

Louis walked toward the stairs at a clipped pace, not quite able to make himself run after her. The thought was like a physical blow, and he wondered painfully why it was that the tears of the woman who had shared twenty-six hours of his time in the past month couldn't convince him to run after her when a single smile had once made him run through New York City like a loon, chasing a woman he'd only had a precious eight hours with. He'd given up on his dreams an eternity ago, but they still clung to him viciously. 

Lyla was gone, if she'd ever been beside him to begin with. He had been twenty, she was nineteen if a day, and the occasional out-of-character fling was really to be expected at that age. It was done now, over before it had a chance to begin. He _knew_ all this, he did.

But still she wouldn't let him be, still kept him from chasing after sensible, present girls like Jennifer. The chords of that god-awful song he'd played until it was deadened of meaning still speared him when he heard them. He'd suspected she was special, different, but hadn't known she would break him apart piece by piece, stealing away in the early morning hours with the most important part of him. There wasn't any way it could be helped, now.

Yet he knew when his ma called tomorrow or a week from now and wanted to know if he had anyone special, he would feel like a right piece of shyte for not going after this perfect, beautiful girl who cared for him; because maybe _this_ situation was one that he could salvage. He hadn't loved Lyla upon first sight, he'd had to learn then, too. The process had just been sped up times about a hundred then.

He came through the outdoor entrance to the basement and stepped outside. It was freezing, and he was grateful he'd parked right in front of the bar. He spotted her right in front of him and stopped. Coming face to face with Jennifer, something in his gut twisted. He was not supposed to be apologizing when he'd told her this was a bad idea and hadn't even really done anything to hurt her. He shouldn't be feeling guilty for being here with her. He'd not been the one to break that non-verbal promise so long ago and move on with his life.

Still, the words were hollow as he spoke them. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry. Just… set me off, ya know?"

Her eyes glittered with wetness, and he found himself thinking it was absurd to look that pretty while crying. That was Jennifer, though; always pretty, always cheerful, and always approachable. Until now, at least.

Her words were laced with venom, but more frustrated than cruel. "I know nothing about you. Do I?" Her rant picked up momentum and he listened helplessly, knowing all the reasoning in the world wouldn't convince him that he didn't deserve this. "I mean, I am _here_ now. I'm real." 

"But Jen – _I'm not_!" Thankfully, the verbal diarrhea he'd once been so proficient at stopped there. The damage was done regardless. His earlier suffocation returned at full force, and he cursed the fact that in these spare moments of truth, with air and tears stinging his eyes, Jen and the imminent end of their relationship was the farthest thing from his mind. It was Lyla's face, Lyla's eyes, Lyla's hands that assaulted his senses. What kind of touched fellow felt only relief that his current relationship was falling apart right in front of him, but mourned for a tryst that had dissolved a decade ago?

A sweet smile touched Jen's lips. Jesus, her face, her hair, her personality was the very standard for sweetness – yet it wasn't ever her he thought about when that word or a million other good ones came to mind. It wasn't her fault. It was just the bitter truth he'd tried for so long to ignore.

"I think that may be the first honest thing you've ever said to me," she told him. 

His heart ached for honesty, ached for the girl-woman who'd brought it out in him so quickly and severely a lifetime ago. Jen took the keys from his limp fingers, then walked around the car. Drowning, unable to breath, yet still breathing too hard and too fast – the familiar resignation settled in, as once again it ended in this. There had been a handful of Jen's; she might not even be the last. But he would always associate her with Marshall now, and those lonely nights singing with the band for a girl who didn't even care to listen.

She stopped, her lips forming one last goodbye, or parting shot as it were. "That song was really beautiful. Whoever she was, she was lucky to have a poet in love with her."

The splintered organ he'd disregarded for so long bled. Jen got into the car and started it, pulling out of the parking space as carefully as he'd backed into it. Louis dropped to the sidewalk, one hand coming up to support his head. 

"Too bad _she_ didn't agree with ya," he muttered, vaguely disgusted with himself.

That, he thought, ignoring the aggressive wind and settling into a mire of self-pity, was really all that there was to say about it.

-0-0-0-

Some unknown amount of time passed before Louis recognized his brother's presence, demanding attention the same as it always did. When they were in the band together, that had always won over the girls before the goddamn 'lead singer' had a chance to so much as open his mouth. 

Except for Lyla. If he remembered correctly, his dream girl wasn't any more taken with Marshall than Louis's brother had been with her. 

He didn't look up at first, because hew knew Marshall would impart his "wisdom" when he was ready and not a minute before. Rushing him would only lead to a bruised cheek or an even more swollen lip. Thankfully, he didn't have to wait more than a minute anyway. "You know it was good having the old Louis back in there… even if it was only for a second."

Like so many other things tonight, the words were salt on an oft-neglected wound. How could the girl who had made him uncharacteristically bold, insane, even, now be the one to bring back the brother Marshall missed? 

Maybe because he sensed this, or maybe because he was just an ass, Marshall continued with a chuckle rumbling in his throat. "Louie, aren't ya supposed to be _in_ the car with the girl when she rides off into the sunset?" In the silence after this statement, a teary laugh shook Louis's body. He kept his head in his hands, knowing hell didn't begin to cover what he would get if Marshall noticed the tear tracks on his face. His brother couldn't begin understand that the only sunset and the only girl who had ever really mattered were both long gone by now. 

With one last cursory glance, Marshall made his final statement, "Get your suit dirty sitting there, man," and then walked off. 

Someone, maybe Nick, had kept the song playing on a loop, and it filtered out to him now.

"_-- I've been sitting watching life pass from the sidelines, been waiting for a dream to seep in through my blinds--"_

He refused to close his eyes this time, to turn to his brother and beg for a punch or a shove to momentarily distract him, and for the first time in years he made himself listen to the song that had symbolized his last hopes of finding Lyla. At twenty with no funds and a smattering of college credits to his name, his music had seemed like the only way to reach her. He choked on a laugh, recognizing now that as wise as he'd been to know then that he wouldn't ever forget her, he'd been a typically stupid lad when it came to finding her and doing something about that realization.

"—_And the stars all shine--"_

He'd been far from expert, and still wasn't, really, but he'd known enough to know that that night had been her first time. He had never been able to wrap his head around that – she'd let him take something so special, had smiled and let him reach for her hands the next morning – and then just ignored him. _No_, he recalled as he looked back, she hadn't ignored him that morning. The sad, hopeless look on her face before she got into the car had been the only thing he could see for months after. Something about that whole morning had never set well with him. 

"—_Under the front porch light, on this June night--"_

A frustrated groan tore from his mouth. What did it mater now? She could be married with tons of kids, or could have sworn off of men altogether after one night with him followed by Marshall's idiotic wakeup call.

"'_When I was a young fellow, I used to talk to the moon…' '…Does it ever talk back?'"_

No. Lyla would always be his one regret, and like the dreamer he'd so often been accused of being, he would probably carry the image of her slender form and melancholy green eyes with him to the grave. 

"—_I started a symphony, surrounding me--"_

It was possible though, wasn't it, that she'd locked that night away in her heart the same way he had? They were still young by most standards, it wasn't unbelievable that she'd be single still. Maybe if he just checked, so he knew one way or the other, he'd be able to move on. No more emotionally fraught dreams that woke him feeling flushed and aroused, no more song lyrics he refused to put to paper knocking around in his head –

"You're crazy, man," he told himself, smirking humorlessly. What, would he show up on her door in one of his ridiculous business suits with offers of an empty, financially stable life and a bouquet of generic flowers in hand? Or worse, would he drag out his old vagabond clothes, hunt her down on the street, and then demand to know why she'd reduced something that meant so much to him to a one-night stand? _Right._

And yet, even as he got up and hailed a cab, he found himself wondering if it was such a terrible idea after all. 

-0-0-0-

"Mrs. Novocain?" Lyla started at the childish voice, smothering a grin at the mangling of her last name. It was the fourth period of the day: the second graders. They were still too young to make stupid word-plays for the purpose of being mean, so she knew that Leon had genuinely confused her name. When the address was matched with his sober but excited face, the mistake was endearing. 

"Leon, I told you that you can call me Lyla," she gently reminded him. Leon was a serious seven-year-old with skin the color of mocha and the most piercing light brown eyes she had ever seen. He loved music and was constantly clapping out beats on his desk. When she had all of her students get up on the first day and handed out drumsticks, he had let out a glass-shattering crow of ecstasy. Now he dawdled after class every day, asking her questions about eighth notes and accidentals. 

Because his eyes were brown and he was uncharacteristically small for his age, it was easy for her to look at him without thinking of the baby she had lost. Sometimes, with the blue-eyed, brown-haired middle school boys, it was harder.

"Lyla," he said, squirming in impatience, "when do we get to listen to rock music?"

She was slightly taken aback by this, because for the most part all Leon had wanted to do in her class was learn about Garth Brooks – she had decided it was better not to ask what the draw to that particular artist was when Leon asked if he could smash a guitar for extra credit. 

The small redhead that sat in the row behind him snorted. "You can't call a teacher by their first name, no matter what they say! And don't be stupid. You know Ms. Novacek," she emphasized the name with a tone of superiority, "is only a substitute for Mrs. Wilcox. She's not permanent."

Lyla smiled against the grimace turning down her lips. Ruby had probably been born correcting people, and it didn't help that Leon made a habit of yanking her hair every time he was presented with the opportunity. The statement was not intended to be hurtful. Still, a sad kind of truth existed in those careless words. Lyla had stopped believing in working toward permanence around the same time she dropped out of Julliard and stopped returning her father's phone calls.

"I hope Mrs. Wilcox stays home with her stupid baby," Leon groused. "I'm sick of hearing about FACEs and good boys and watching videos about dead men. But if Mrs. Wilcox quit, you could stay with us forever. Right, Lyla?"

A lump formed in her throat. She opened her mouth, prepared to quietly tell him that forever was just a very convincing fairy tale, but snapped it shut just in time. Horrified with herself, she did her best to smile convincingly. "Well, Ruby's right. I am a substitute. _But_ – but, we have another two weeks until Mrs. Wilcox comes back, and I don't see why we can't listen to some rock music during that time." Her grin now genuine, she scanned her brain for any modern, catchy rock songs that she could in good conscience play to a group of seven- and eight-year-olds. 

Leon deflated, and before she could stop herself she reached out to ruffle his mass of mini dreadlocks. He simply turned mournful eyes on her. A pale, bony arm extended in the far side of her vision, and she replied without turning around. "Yes, Sarah?" Sarah had been told with the rest of the class that she only had to raise her hand during theory exercises or when more than one person had something to say. It was a system Lyla had found superior, since most kids already followed those rules, but Sarah was a tough cookie and was already crying when she received "A's" instead of "A 's."

"Can we listen to the Mad Connelly Brothers? My dad says that they're his favorite band, but they don't have any CD's."

Lyla's hand dropped from Leon abruptly, and she clenched it into a fist for a long moment, doing her best to rid her mind of the sudden attack of memories that name conjured, the miserable outweighing the joyful in quantity. 

She had discovered Louis's identity through a series of conversations with Liz, who had had a fling with his older brother Marshall six weeks before Louis and Lyla met. By the time she had connected the dots and had a last name, she'd already lost the baby and finding him seemed pointless. Liz told her Louis had quit the band and returned to San Francisco to get a degree in business. The news had made her sad for reasons she could no more justify than she could voice. 

As always, even the mention of him was enough to paralyze her with questions of what if and make her heart beat at three times its normal speed. Through the panic a bitter-sweet smile escaped. Louis himself had done nothing but be kind to her, a fact that made her cry on lonely nights but gave her a strange amount of control in this situation. She did her best to fight her way out of the all-consuming memories, taking another deep breath and making her tone cheerful. "That'll be hard to do if they don't have any CD's out, won't it?"

"But my dad knows one of the band members," Sarah supplied, jumping up and down as an idea took shape in her mind. Lyla imagined wheels turning at the speed of light hidden under that flaxen head of hair. "Maybe he could call him and they could come to our school and play for us!" A chorus of "yeah"'s and "please"'s followed, and Lyla tried to suppress her renewed distraction long enough to give a noncommittal answer. How could someone who knew Louis be here, in the city? Had Sarah's father mentioned the talented cellist masquerading as a music teacher to a friend of Louis's? Did he already know where she was? He couldn't know about the baby, could he? The room spun frantically.

Over the years, other strange things like this had happened – a friend who knew someone else that had dated a band member, a producer who appreciated classical music mentioning that she'd once tried to convince the group to do a demo. The train tracks of their separate lives had almost crossed a thousand times, always impeded by a delayed flight or a few day's difference. She had come to accept it as a fact of their lives, deciding either the music world was less segregated than she believed it to be or that fate enjoyed playing cruel jokes on her, reminding her of what she'd lost. She wondered if fate played jokes on Louis.

The bell rang, and Liz appeared outside the classroom door, pointing to her watch and mouthing 'dress fitting.' Lyla heaved a sigh of relief and shooed her students out the door.

-0-0-0-

She blanched as soon as she saw the dress. Pale pink silk, strapless and flaring slightly at the waist, it was not the dress hiding in the back of her closet, but still a viciously accurate estimation. _No. No no no no no no NO!_ She cursed the chronic absentmindedness that had made her eager to give Liz complete control over bridesmaid's dresses, her own hands too full with floral arrangements and the bachelorette party for her to feel anything but relief. 

A migraine started behind her eyes. Why would she be hit over the head by all these reminders today? She usually had several months or, if she was lucky, a few years to recover between mentions of Louis. She'd been able to train herself not to think of him anymore than necessary. Now his voice overpowered her best friend's, echoing in her head so surely she almost turned her head to take in the familiar marble arch.

"'_Where've you been, dressed like that? I know you wouldn't wear that dress to a party like this one.' 'Actually, my friend and I played in a concert tonight… I play cello…' 'You're a musician? …So you understand.' 'Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.'"_

Lyla blinked back tears. "Not this dress, Lizzie." Her voice was hoarse and dull and not hers at all.

Liz crossed her arms and huffed, her usually cool temperament faltering under the pressure of last-minute seating arrangements and pricey caterers. "I can't afford to rush a completely different set of dresses in at the last minute, Lyla, so unless you feel compelled to tell me what crime of nature this dress has committed, you're going to have to deal." 

She shook her head. She would get through this, for Liz and for her own piece of mind. Backing out over a silly dress wasn't an option. Liz gave her a shrewd half-grin, knowing by now that the threat of a heart-to-heart could push Lyla into doing just about anything. Lyla also saw the crushed hope there, however small. 

She wordlessly grabbed the dress, wondering why she hadn't made time for this before. What if she looked hideous? What if the bodice cut off her airways? With jerky movements she pulled off her sweater, sneakers, and jeans. A cursory glance at the neckline of the dress told her that a bra was unneeded and more likely than not unrealistic, so she deftly unhooked hers before easing the dress out of the see-through garment bag and over her hips. She paused for a moment, taking in the way the fluorescent lighting of the dressing room emphasized her barely-there stretch marks. The physical evidence of her pregnancy so soon after hearing about Louis was more than she could handle.

"Lizzie, can you zip me up?" she called, holding the material to her chest with one hand and opening the door with the other. Her best friend rushed in in a flash red hair and incoherent wedding talk. Lyla ignored her until she felt the zipper glide up her back without obstruction. 

"I knew the fit would be perfect. They looked at me oddly when I ordered a size zero, but it fits you like a second skin… a tasteful second skin, anyway. You are absolutely gorgeous in this color, Lyla."

"'_You're beautiful.' 'It's the dress, I'm uh, usually really--' '_You_ are beautiful.'"_

Tears filled her eyes. Her arms crossed over her stomach, a gesture of vulnerability she'd used to ward off the emptiness her body felt after… after. Just after. Liz's voice became quiet, hesitant but filled with consideration. "Lyla, have you ever thought of maybe adopting?"

Lyla wrinkled her brow in genuine confusion. "Adoption is generally for infertile married couples. I'm a thirty-year-old single woman."

"So? It's the twenty-first century, and plenty of kids spend their childhoods rotting in a group home while they wait for a cookie-cutter family to take them in. I just see you with those kids at the school, and you have so much to give. Losing the baby just made you afraid to show it. If you would just--"

"So you want me to what, replace him? Act like he and his father meant nothing to me?" Lyla's anger boiled over, forcing Liz into a shocked silence. Then Liz embraced her tightly, brushing away the tears dampening her cheeks.

"Oh, honey, no. You could never replace either of them. But you can learn to love again. I know you say this has nothing to do with your father, but if you could just talk to someone about it, maybe--"

Lyla pushed her away, tears still shining on her cheeks. "Please don't," she whispered. "I know you think I'm stupid for pining away after this man I don't even know, but that one night… every other man who has ever claimed to care has either worshipped me for my musical skill or wanted to lock me away in a glass cabinet. It's not just my dad, you know? Most guys don't appreciate someone who's grabbing headlines but not income and is away more than they're home. But that night, with Louis, he just accepted me. What I had to give was enough."

"Oh, Lyla," Liz whispered, and her brown eyes filled with compassion. Lyla looked away, unable to see it.

"I don't know, maybe some people can move on and find that again, but I could have had it and I threw it away. I had my chance, all right? I lost it, and I don't want to take anymore. My standards are too high, and I'd just be setting myself up for disappointment. I know it seems weak and self-pitying, but I don't want to move on." Her shoulders shook as she hugged her waist more firmly. "I can't. So please, just let me be? I chose this life." 

After a long pause, Liz nodded sadly. They left the store and didn't say anything else until they got back to the apartment.

-0-0-0-


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:**Once again, I own none of the import people or events. I do own Heidi and Leon, though, and wish I could claim ownership of Sarah.

**A/N:** This chapter took forever to tweak between typical OOC behavior by the characters and an unexpected appearance from Lyla's dad. There's some nice introspection and a kind of confusing dream sequence which I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think. :)

**Chapter Two**

Louis looked around the storage unit with a critical eye. The concrete floor hosted a multitude of dust bunnies, and the walls were bare save for the metal shelf off to one corner. Most of the room was bare, really, an awful old couch he'd chucked in here years ago the only thing to take up any substantial amount of space. On the floor surrounding the sofa were three or four boxes, all of which contained some form or other of band memorabilia. The open flaps and exposed posters taunted him.

Packing that part of his life away had seemed a sensible way to deal with it at the time. He'd restrained himself from trashing flyers and programs, throwing them in boxes instead. The odd t-shirt he had folded and put away with a grim face. For the most part he never bothered with any of it again; he'd been determined to wash his hands of every last reminder of that summer, the best and worst of his life.

Finances had been bad enough during his second semester at school that he considered hawking his guitar, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. All the rest of it had only served as a reminder of a part of his life he hadn't wanted to confront, but that guitar had _been_ his life for years. Even without the music, he hadn't been able to make himself part with it entirely. 

Now what he'd once viewed as a sign of closure hit him as a blatant attempt to push everything under the bed, assured that it would still be there when he came back for it. He wondered if denial had really been worth eighty dollars a month.

His heart entered his throat as he walked over to the couch. He pulled one end away from the wall, revealing the guitar case concealed underneath. His hiding spot hadn't made much sense spatially, so it took a few minutes of shoving and lifting before Louis could pull the guitar out. He overestimated the strength of his final tug and the metal brackets keeping it closed cut into his knees. A muttered an oath escaped his mouth as he rubbed his injured skin angrily. Then, with equal amounts dread and anticipation, he went to open the case. His hand only made it to midair.

What was he hoping to accomplish with this? he wondered. After his song to Lyla had almost landed them a record deal, Louis had put down his guitar, not intending to touch it again. The same songs that had once brought him so much joy had trapped him in a desperate, hopeful limbo. The only way out was to forget her completely. All this passed through his mind, brutally reminding him that there was a reason he didn't play anymore.

He had lost his music to Lyla years ago, and a routine break-up with a girl he'd had a passing attraction to wouldn't change that if Marshall's fists hadn't done the trick. He was just wasting his time. But Lyla's voice danced in his ears, and he welcomed it despite his best intentions.

"'_You know, when I play it doesn't always feel right, but when it is right… it's perfect. I have to believe in that. There isn't anything else to believe in.'"_

He remembered staring at her, drinking in each detail of her face after their coupling, and feeling his heart rejoice when her every word echoed his own often unvoiced thoughts. He'd almost told her then to believe in _them_, but it had seemed too early for such a bold declaration. There had been contentment in her face to simply be talking about the things closest to her heart with someone who cared, and it had been enough. He hadn't wanted to rush anything. In that moment he had foreseen them having a hundred more talks like that one, and several weeks' time at least for him to tell her that he loved her. Suspecting that she already knew, he'd decided it would keep.

It hadn't kept, and her absence had left a painful hole in his being. Where he had been stuck in a rut before, afterward he was left wandering aimlessly with only the vaguest of goals in mind. Louis remembered that she was quiet and tried to fill the silence with screaming; picking stupid fights with Marshall and singing out his frustration night after night. He remembered the soft golden waves of her hair and chased after every blond-haired girl in New York, embarrassing himself more than once in the process. Then, when perseverance failed and his fingers began to feel awkward on the guitar, he'd simply given up. There had been no nobility in walking away, no respect or honor in it. He'd been like a little boy, running away from something that hurt and frightened him. That was the truth in all its shameful glory.

No more. He wasn't sure how, but he knew that Lyla would not have wanted this for him. She had been _all_ music, from her expressive voice and face to the fluid, graceful way that she moved. Marshall could rail against snobby princesses and he himself could curse destiny and bad timing a thousand times over, but it didn't change what had happened. He had fallen in love with her the moment he heard her name but hadn't had the time to tell her. She had stripped herself bare for him and then some unexplained obligation or fear had held her back. Whatever he thought about that, though, he refused to believe that she had ever meant to hurt him. Maybe his music hadn't been able to find her. But it had kept her close to his heart instead of tucked away in a 6'x6' concrete cubicle. 

Now he could practically taste memories and chord progressions from years ago, pleading to be let out and examined. With caution he allowed them to take root in his mind. He wasn't sure if it was her or the music he was welcoming back into his life. Somewhere along the way the two had become interchangeable.

His decision made, Louis snapped open the metal brackets and drew the lid upward. The first glance was enough to bring his heart right back into his throat. One reverent hand gently teased the strings, and he delighted in the sound, beautiful even if it was slightly out of tune. He scanned the interior of the case with soft eyes. All his best memories were there, preserved on film. Except… he picked the guitar up carefully, cradling it on his lap with familiarity. His eyes sought out the bottom of the emptied case, shadowing when they feel on the worn Polaroid. He picked it up gingerly. 

Her hair appeared deceptively tame. The dress he'd helped her back into when the temperature dropped was hidden by the blanket and his arms. She looked peaceful; content, even. He was wrapped around her tightly, as if he'd known even in sleep how important it was to keep her close. The moment was perfect and natural, and looking at it stirred up all the feelings of home he'd felt the moment he took her in his arms. 

There were no frown lines on her face. The shyness that had been so prominent in her at first had all but evaporated here, and he smiled at the sight. These and a million other little details whispered that his feelings had not been one-sided – that maybe they still weren't. He choked on a disbelieving laugh, amazed at how quickly he was pushing aside ten years of loneliness. Hope flooded his heart in tidal waves.

Turning the guitar in his arms and setting the picture down, he slowly tuned the instrument, playing a G chord when he was done. It reverberated off the walls, clear and strong. "I'm not sure it'll ever be the same," he confessed in a shaky voice. The words suddenly seemed like a hindrance instead of a decent excuse. Nimble fingers formed one chord, and then another. All the while he saw her face in his mind.

Two hours later, he scrawled down the final notes of a brand new song.

-0-0-0-

"_I would have found you / I would have found you…"_

Louis sang quietly, his gravelly voice hesitant after years without use. His fingers endured no such impediment, traveling the guitar strings expertly as he wound the song down. After a few extra chords, he set the instrument aside and gazed at Nick expectantly. A previously absent light shone in his eyes. "Well, what do ya think? It's not 'This Time,' that's for sure, but…"

Nick brought up his hand, silencing his friend. A mile-wide grin covered his face. "It's fantastic, man. You'll have girls falling all over you," he said, chuckling good-naturedly.

"Don't be stupid, Nick!" They both looked up to see Sarah, Nick's wife, standing in the doorway with suspiciously bright eyes. A Jewish woman who hated temple but adored classical music, Sarah gave private violin lessons. She was normally remarkably even-keeled, but the smallest mention of music or, heaven forbid, romance saw her turning into an emotionally charged force to be reckoned with. She walked up to Louis and patted his shoulder, a sisterly gesture bursting with approval. In a knowing voice she asked, "You wrote it for Lyla, didn't you?"

Only the band knew about Lyla. Sarah had sniffed out a past heartbreak minutes after meeting Louis, though, and at her insistence Nick had spilled the whole painful story. For years after that Sarah tried to set Louis up with women she had deemed marriage material, but about five years ago she'd finally thrown in the towel. Since then she'd always looked at him with sympathy, shoving a dish of food into his hands the few times a year they saw each other at social gatherings. 

Louis looked at her now with barely concealed emotion, nodding shortly. "Suddenly everything I shut away is just… pourin' out into this," he said, gesturing to his guitar. "Then this morning, I walked into work and quit me job. It was just killing me all of a sudden to be there, ya know?"

"Louis, that's so romantic!" She gushed.

"What the hell d'ya mean, it's romantic! He just threw away his job, and most likely his reputation! He'll be broke by the month's end!" Nick sputtered incredulously. He pinned Louis with rounded eyes. "Man, I told you to start playing again, not up and quit your job!"

Sarah waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Don't listen to him. I mention children _once_ and now all he can see is the cost of diapers and how much money that we don't have will need to start going into an education fund the minute I get pregnant." She leaned forward, her brown eyes shining with excitement and barely contained glee. "So, are you going to try to find her?"

"Sarah!" Nick exclaimed warningly.

Louis studied his hands, his teeth working his lower lip. He hadn't gotten a minute of sleep the previous night, his mind and heart too full for him to relax. He'd run her first name through Google and then sifted through ten pages worth of links before conceding defeat. Ever after that he'd been at his desk until five in the morning, trying to think of people from the New York days that he could track down and ask about the elusive cellist. True, this second attempt to find Lyla was already an uphill battle. But still he new that this time he wasn't letting go. If only he had a last name…

To Sarah he said, "I love her. I'll look for as long as it takes."

He watched in bewilderment when Sarah jumped to her feet and hurried to the nearby desk. She pulled a drawer open and began rifling furiously through a multitude of papers, her husband growing more uneasy with each passing moment. Finally Nick spoke in a strained voice. "Sarah, Marshall said to leave it be."

Louis stiffened at the mention of his brother. His apprehension increased when Sarah began to mutter darkly in Yiddish. Finally finding what she had been looking for, she slapped the cupboard closed victoriously. She and Nick locked eyes and she spoke firmly. "I've given him the space he needs to come to his senses and not butted in once. But if you think I'm going to let him waste months on a wild goose chase you're wrong." 

"What's going on?" Louis's voice was loud, the first grains of anger taking root in him.

Sarah reclaimed her previous position beside him. "You know I follow classical music almost obsessively," she began. "Well, a few years back I came across an article about a very young, very talented cello player who had dropped off the face of the earth nearly ten years ago." She handed him a tattered newspaper clipping. He sucked in a deep breath, finding himself staring into Lyla's face for the first time in eleven years.

In the background he was vaguely aware of Sarah and Nick arguing softly, but none of it made an impression on him. He studied the inset picture with careful detachment. Lyla held her instrument against her as if it was a treasured possession, but her eyes were vacant of warmth or any real pleasure. The caption said the picture had been taken in July of 1995. Taking in the scant details the article provided, he found that she had taken a leave of absence from Julliard three months later, only to withdraw officially at the end of the winter semester. She'd picked up several gigs as a soloist after that, but months later she disappeared from the music scene altogether. When the article was written she had been working as a substitute music teacher and was rooming with another former musician named Elizabeth Bryant in a small Chicago neighborhood. No husband or children were mentioned.

He came back to himself when Sarah squeezed his hand. Through his numbed state, he recognized that she was most likely breaking a few important bones. "And you just won't believe this, Louis! You know Steve's goddaughter? Her dad says all she's talked about for weeks is her beautiful young music teacher, _Ms. Novacek_!"

"We've been so close to finding each other all this time…" he said, dazed by all the new information.

"Now you have a last name and a city," Sarah supplied eagerly. "You can be there by tomorrow morning if you hurry!"

Shaken and armed with a brown bag Sarah had instructed him to leave for the flight, Louis stumbled out of Nick's apartment twenty minutes later a new man. The picture of Lyla was in his jacket pocket, resting against his heart. When he reached his car he finally set down his guitar, placing the packed lunch on top of it. He withdrew the picture, unable to resist the impulse to look at her once more. Even with the penetrating sadness she radiated she was achingly beautiful. There in the middle of a bustling sidewalk dressed in decade-old jeans, Louis remembered acutely what it had felt like to be so head-over-heels for her that he froze his arse off for hours every day, all in the hopes that she'd show up under the arch sooner or later if he wished it enough. 

A fresh wave of emotion enveloped him as he pictured Lyla now, teaching music but not playing it, having given up for a reason very like his own. "I know eleven years is too long to wait," he whispered intently, "but hold on one more day. I'm coming for you."

-0-0-0-

_Why am I doing this?_

The question followed Lyla from her apartment and into the cab, hanging on insistently all through the ride to the upscale café in downtown. For the most part she simply let it hang in the air, stifling and foreboding. Liz's words from the other day played over and over in her mind. _"I know you say this has nothing to do with your father…"_ She hadn't told her friend about the phone call from her father late yesterday evening, simply saying that she'd made a lunch date with someone from her days in the orchestra. Absently she wondered why she had felt the need to lie about it. _Because you know she'd try to talk you out of this_, an inner voice taunted.

When the cab pulled over she fumbled in her purse to find the fare. She clutched it to her chest tightly, staring nervously out the window. "Are you sure you're stopping here?" the cabbie asked, eyeing her kindly. She forced a smile and handed him a few bills. 

Her legs shook as she stepped out onto the curb, but she pushed past it and stood up. Lyla noticed her father almost immediately; he'd chosen a table right near the front of the restaurant and was waiting anxiously. He turned a minute after she saw him, and they locked eyes for one long, infinitely surreal moment. She couldn't discern what he was thinking from his expression.

She walked inside and quickly made her way over to the table, her eyes darting around the room. He had stood up to greet her. When Lyla reached the table she put down her purse and took off her coat, then glanced at her father cautiously. He looked like he wanted to hug her, but she used the high-backed chair as a shield. Eventually he sat down, motioning for her to join him. 

A waitress came up to take their order, and her father let out a rapid string of French, gesturing to himself and to her before holding up two fingers. A smile, not exactly bitter, played on her lips; it was a relief to see that some things, at least, hadn't changed. Soon they were left alone again. "How are you, Lyla?" he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders uncomfortably, her hands fidgeting with her purse strap. "I'm doing all right. I've been teaching music at a school here in the city." She ventured a timid glance at him.

His face darkened and he shook his head. "Lyla, what are you doing with your life?" His eyes were pained. "You should be playing in symphonies, making a name for yourself." When she felt his hand close around her wrist she withdrew her arm sharply. He looked surprised, and they sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments.

"Mom," she finally said, "was a music teacher." Lyla scanned his face, wondering if the name would incite any emotion from him. He looked at her indifferently.

"Your mother didn't have half the talent you do. Teaching was fine for her, but I wanted better for you." She instantly regretted bringing her mother into the conversation. Her mention, as always, made her father's returning shots seem a million times more personal. It gave him the power of a parent as well as that of a critic.

"I'm sorry that I didn't turn into the person you expected," she finally said. That much, at least, she could give him. Not a day went by where she didn't look in the mirror and wonder what exactly had happened to silence her music. Grief wasn't a good or even reasonable excuse. For months after the accident she'd played voraciously, rage lending her music an eerie quality. Ironically, her instructors claimed that her playing had never been better. Eventually anger had given way to exhaustion, though, and even looking at the cello had hurt her. She had moved to Chicago hoping to escape her father's unrealistic standards. Liz had been sympathetic, sure that in a few months Lyla would be back to normal, and Lyla had never looked back. Her last great dream slipped away from her without a fight. 

"It's shameful," her father continued, "to have a gift like that and to waste it. And on what, a bunch of inner city kids?"

Lyla flinched. His frustration with her she could almost understand, but bringing her students into the conversation was uncalled for. Protectiveness welled up in her. "What difference does it make where they come from? Some of those kids have so much talent, dad. I look at them and it feels like there's hope for me."

Her father's penetrating gaze moved over her face, judging her and finding her wanting. He shook his head tiredly. "Look at you. Just thirty and already exhausting yourself, all for a handful of kids. You look terrible." The words stung not because they were cruel but because they were true. 

"Some things are more important than music," she replied softly. She fiddled with the cloth napkin on her place setting. A great sigh sounded from her father's side of the table, and her hand clenched. "But you know that we're never going to agree on this," she said after a minute. "So why did you ask me to meet you here, dad?"

He eyed her skeptically. "That's it? I think that's the first time in twelve years that you haven't stormed out of a restaurant while talking to me." 

"The last time I tried that I got hit by a car," she snapped. She put the heels of her hands against the table and breathed in deeply. "Dad," she said, her voice lowering, "what do you want? What more is there to say?" A shadow passed over his face, and the look in his eyes scared her the way few things had in her life. "Dad?" she prompted. He looked at her peculiarly for a minute. Her stomach churned. 

In the end he said, "I just wanted to see you." Disappointment filled her, and she realized that she'd been waiting to hear something else. But what _else_ had she expected?

He left twenty minutes later, a pile of bills left in a neat stack on the table to cover lunch. She picked at her food in silence.

-0-0-0-

The cello was propped against her bed. 

Lyla recognized even as she saw it that it was not really there – that she was not, in fact, awake – but she moved for it anyway. One step forward, another, and then – she ran her hand lovingly down the cherry wood, sighing at the contact. The varnished wood and familiar scent was poignant and very much like home. Her bow was lying against the lavender comforter, begging to be picked up. She obliged, cautious to avoid the horse hair. Careful movements propelled her into a chair that hadn't been there a minute ago, and she positioned the cello before her. The bow drew across the strings of its own volition. The pace was fast and demanding. Her hands stuttered clumsily during the first few measures, but soon she kept up effortlessly.

She played and played, Bach and Beethoven and Dvorak resonating around and inside her. Song after song was wordlessly suggested, and she obliged without any real thought. The muscles in her arms screamed for relief. It was only when a foreign but beloved voice seeped through her reverie that she paused. 

"Play harder."

Her hand slipped. The bow clattered to the floor, unnoticed by her in her distress. Lyla looked upon the figure with widening eyes, wondering at the intent expression on its face.

"Mom?" Words tangled in her throat. Wheat-colored hair and kind gray eyes were absorbed by her cautiously, and she waited for the woman to refute the assumption and fade into nothing.

"For five years I taught you. Your arms could not even hold a bow when we started, but you… you were so in love with the music. We would play together for hours." Katya smiled gently at her daughter. "I knew even then that you would be great."

Tears wet her eyelashes. Her hands fell to her sides, and she looked in confusion at the vacant space where her beloved instrument had rested moments before. Suddenly she yearned for it, lost and confused without its familiar presence. "I don't understand. Please, help me understand," she begged. 

There was a desperate light in her mother's eyes as she came forward. Wiry arms stretched forward and calloused hands gripped Lyla's. "You must play for him. Play, so that he can find you!" she said urgently.

"He'll never find you, Lyla." This voice belonged to her father, and she whipped around to face him. He was not the man of her memory but the one she'd encountered earlier that day. Age had roughened and lined his skin, but his hair was still the same faint red it had been as far back as she could remember. He regarded her shrewdly. "I told you to play. I told you… so much talent, all for nothing." His expression grew sorrowful as he peered at her. "That baby was the worst thing that could have happened to you. I told you that then."

Her hands settled over her abdomen. "The music was for him," she argued harshly, "for both of them."

"What're ya doing here, Lyla?" 

She ignored Louis, focusing instead on the baby nestled in her arms. The wind blowing through the square was cold, and she tucked the blanket around his face. "I'll always love you," she promised softly. "I've always wanted you." The infant giggled and latched onto her finger. 

His voice persisted, the lilting accent giving his words a liquid quality. "Lyla, move on. _Move on_."

Lyla peered up at him. The proportions were all wrong; he seemed to loom above the arch instead of being dwarfed by it. Clear blue eyes looked into hers intently. Tears rolled down her face and neck. "I can't. I'm so empty. I – I need you."

His hand cradled her face, and he brought her hand to his lips. "Move on," he told her one last time, his face inching toward hers. She inhaled shakily and leaned into him. The sound of a lock clicking filtered in, and suddenly a hand clamped onto her shoulder.

"Lyla. Lyla, wake up! Liz is going to be here any minute, and you're not even dressed!"

"_No_!" she shouted, waking with a start. At first she didn't register the eyes looking down at her in concern, but Heidi's voice soon broke through the lingering remnants of the dream. She struggled to regain control of her emotions but instead sank back into the couch, crying in earnest.

"What's going on? Talk to me, Lyla. Here," the blond said, thrusting a tissue box into her trembling hands. "I came in here and you were crying in your sleep."

Lyla stilled when she caught sight of her bedroom door ajar. Without warning she sprang to her feet and tore down the hallway, flinging open the closet door so hard that it hit the wall with a loud crack. Hidden underneath a plethora of scarves and a few old winter coats was her cello, still safely tucked away in its case. "I was playing…" Her hands came up to her cheeks and found the skin flushed. The sensation of Louis's hands on her face rushed back. A loud sigh escaped her as she leaned against the wall. Heidi had followed her, and now she looked at her with thoughtful eyes.

"Another nightmare?" she inquired. 

Lyla shook her head. "It wasn't… it was disturbing, but there was good too. I just…" she exhaled a weak laugh, struggling for adequate words. "Louis and the baby were there. So was my dad. And… my mom."

Heidi's eyebrows rose. "Didn't your mom take off when you were like nine?"

"Yeah. I… I should get dressed. Just give me a minute to get it together." Heidi left her in the hallway, and Lyla buried her face in her hands. A bitter, metallic taste filled her mouth and she realized that she'd bitten her bottom lip. For a moment she could swear that she heard the gentle chords of a guitar. She shook her head one last time to clear it as she moved into the bathroom. Like the phantom cries of an infant, these sounds were simply the product of an overactive imagination. 

Her dream mother's words swirled around in her head and she shuddered. There had been an almost prophetic tone to her orders. "Stop it," she reprimanded herself, fighting down hysteria. Louis was gone now, and that was something that all the music in the world wouldn't be able to change.

-0-0-0-


End file.
